


it was the high heels

by spinoffprotagonist



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, I'm new to writing these two so forgive any mischaracterisation, M/M, background MSBY black jackals just doin their thing, it started off as sakuthirst but i can only write fluff it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinoffprotagonist/pseuds/spinoffprotagonist
Summary: It’s stupid how that manspreading pose gives Sakusa an air of undeniable charisma, and of course Sakusa is wearing high heeled boots despite being one of the tallest assholes ever, which makes him an even bigger asshole just for wearing them, but it doesn't matter, because as he shifts and firmly places his feet flat against the floor, Atsumu has to try very hard not to think about how much he'd let Sakusa step on him.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 43
Kudos: 374





	it was the high heels

It all starts because of a pair of high heels.

Well, more specifically, it all starts with Sakusa Kiyoomi.

At this point, Atsumu just refuses to see. He can be literally walking to the nearest convenience store to get spicy cup noodles, and it would be on the TV screens of those electronics shops you pass by at the corner of the street, for _everyone_ who walked by to see.

Sakusa Kiyoomi's stupid ad.

How on earth Sakusa was even convinced to do the ad, he has no idea. It’s worse than Tobio-kun’s curry ad, because at least that had entertainment value. Maybe Sakusa was bribed with a lifetime supply of cleaning agents. Atsumu can't even _begin_ to imagine Sakusa in a situation where he’s being persuaded to do a video advertisement and _model clothing_ when all he wears outside of volleyball is ugly sweats from head to toe.

(As far as he knows, anyway.)

It's _horrendous_ that Atsumu is forced to face this on a daily basis. The universe does not _care_ for his well being because Sakusa "192cm of Mysophobic Asshole" Kiyoomi gives him a near heart attack every time the stupid ad plays for a painful twenty seconds. In the ad, Sakusa’s ink dark eyes are mesmerising, lined with black-gold and utterly unamused. The eyeliner draws undue focus towards his piercing yet flat stare (he always manages to look mildly disgusted, somehow), making his features seem all the more sharply defined, commanding all attention so that Atsumu can’t look away.

It should be _illegal_ for someone to look that good in such simple wear, but of course Sakusa just _has_ to ruin Atsumu’s day in a tyrian purple jacket, black turtleneck and slacks. He looks almost ethereal, like Dionysus incarnate; a modern deity dressed to kill. Deep colours against pale skin, like he’s draped in molasses, swathed in the night sky. He's sitting backwards on a chair with long fingers folding around the backrest, a pair of tinted glasses dangling from one hand, his legs bent and chest tucked in. His posture is awful and slouching like always, but here it gives him an air of lazy assertion, like he _knows_ he’s better but doesn’t even feel the need to prove it.

It’s stupid how that manspreading pose gives Sakusa an air of undeniable charisma, and of course Sakusa is wearing high heeled boots despite being one of the tallest assholes ever, which makes him an _even_ bigger asshole just for wearing them, but _it doesn't matter_ , because as he shifts and firmly places his feet flat against the floor, Atsumu has to try very hard _not_ to think about how much he'd let Sakusa step on him.

Sakusa tilts his head and brings the sunglasses up to his face while resting his chin on his other hand, somehow looking bored and brooding all at once, but it sure as hell _works_ because it accentuates the features of his face (Atsumu blames his stupid dark curls swept to one side and the two moles on his forehead and his marble countenance and his stupid _stupid_ pretty eyes). He _smirks_ , barely, like the jerk he is. The clothing brand logo appears on the screen and the ad ends along with Atsumu’s will to live.

He has many opinions on this. First of all: who even allowed this to happen? Atsumu would like to speak with their sales director, because nobody should have allowed Sakusa to _actually_ wear decent clothes outside of his volleyball jersey and look this devastating. It's so unfair that frankly Atsumu finds it atrocious how Sakusa probably doesn't know, or care, about the effect this ad has on him. Because _that's just how Omi-Omi is_.

Atsumu also feels the need to clarify, to himself, that he doesn't _like_ Sakusa. It's an important distinction to make. Sakusa is an aloof person who carries his thirty-pack antibacterial wipes everywhere he goes and has creepy bendy-straw wrists and holds contempt for people, especially towards Atsumu. No, Sakusa isn't the sort who'd make Atsumu feel mushy and butterflies on the inside. He _knows_ what mushy and butterflies feel like. This is definitely not it.

But he _can, begrudgingly,_ acknowledge physical looks, however painful it is to admit it. Hell, Atsumu's almost constantly surrounded by other built young people in peak condition; he knows at least twenty flavours of good-looking by now, including but not limited to Bokuto’s back muscles, Shouyou’s thighs, and Meian’s everything.

So yeah. He’s not new to attractiveness. He doesn't like Sakusa. The ad grates on his mind like harsh concrete – it's as if Sakusa is doing it on purpose, in a _you may hate my guts but you will still thirst over me regardless_ kinda way, except it isn’t, and it _sucks_.

Stupid high heeled Sakusa with his pretty eyes and dark hair.

Atsumu goes back to the shared Black Jackals dorm building, slurps and chokes on his cup noodles when he eats too fast, and doesn’t skip the ad when it appears again in the middle of a YouTube video.

–

The next time he sees Sakusa, he starts to get annoyed at himself, because there may have been an excuse (however weak) for _that_ , but he has no way of explaining his way out of _this_.

It’s after a long match against the EJP Raijin, and the MSBY Black Jackals are having a victory party at an izakaya that’s within walking distance from their building. (The matchpoint still makes him giddy with pride, when Atsumu spiked past Suna with one of Hinata’s sets.) Sakusa, normally the designated driver (not by his own choice), doesn’t seem used to being given the freedom to drink alcohol, and so he’s sipping from a glass of virgin mojito and glancing at the rest of the team with a wary eye.

He looks moderately uncomfortable, which honestly is a huge improvement from outright leaving whenever the Jackals decided to hang out together. Atsumu’s kind of proud at how far he’s come; heck, Sakusa even greets him verbally one out of every three days now.

And his fashion sense seems to have improved too, Atsumu notes as Sakusa tugs his dark green blazer away to narrowly escape the spray of beer droplets from Bokuto’s excited cup-waving. Maybe he has hope after all, Atsumu thinks, before remembering that this is the same guy who _still_ wears clashing neon track shoes like he did back in high school.

“What,” Sakusa says. He’s noticed Atsumu looking at him.

“Nothin’, Omi-kun, just thinkin’ ‘bout how ya could dress like this more. Yer a lot less insufferable-lookin’ in formal clothes.” Atsumu means _more_ instead of less, but both honestly mean the same thing when it comes to Sakusa.

“Thanks for the feedback. I really don’t care.” Sakusa takes another long drink from his glass, still three quarters full, and the conversation dies there.

Bokuto’s already grabbing Shouyou with him to go watch the chefs prepare their dish, Meian’s talking to Barnes about some of their gameplays, Adriah and Shion are teasing each other in English, so Atsumu goes over to Sakusa after a few more drinks have eroded his decision-making. In a way, it’s inevitable, how they always end up keeping each other company. Sakusa, despite all that he is, is comfortable (tolerant might be a more fitting word) enough with Atsumu that they can sit opposite each other and not say anything and not feel awkward. But because Atsumu has already downed several glasses of beer over the past few hours, he’s loud and sleepy and feels the need to break the silence; to say _something_ . “Omi-kun Omi-kun Omi-kuunnn, why’re ya sittin’ so _far_ away,” he complains, arms dangling all over the bar table in an effort to stretch towards Sakusa on the other end. “C’mere closer. Talk better.”

“We weren’t even talking in the first place.” Sakusa’s nose wrinkles. “I also don’t need to smell your alcohol breath.”

“Not _that_ close,” Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Whaddya think I am? If I wanted someone to cuddle, I woulda asked Shouyou, not you.”

“Thanks for sharing, Miya,” Sakusa replies dryly, taking another sip of his drink.

“Get stuffed, Omi-Omi, yer so _rude_ ,” he decides huffily. “Dunno why I bother tryin’ sometimes.” His head feels too heavy, so he opts to rest his chin on the table, which might’ve been a poor decision on his part because now he has to look up in order to see Sakusa’s face and his clear dark eyes and pinched brows like he’s tasted something sour.

Sakusa has finished his drink, and in true fashion only directs a cool smirk at Atsumu, not even dignifying him with a response. _It’s unfair_ , Atsumu thinks again, though he doesn’t know what is, exactly. It’s unfair, maybe, how Sakusa can sit there and smirk at Atsumu while he’s all inebriated and careless-mouthed, unfair how Atsumu never sees any sort of vulnerable side when it comes to Sakusa. It’s unfair that Atsumu wants to know how Sakusa is like, in his private moments. Kind of wants to see Sakusa drunkenly free or laughing or at ease for a change; maybe he’d be less tense, let loose the thoughts he keeps to himself, and maybe Atsumu wants to reach for Sakusa and keep him to himself.

Maybe he wants anything from Sakusa if he’d give it.

And that is _so_ not the direction he wants his mind to be headed, so he groans and shakes his head quickly to clear his thoughts. It’s inappropriate to think about a teammate this way, even if his train of thought is largely muddled from the beer, so Atsumu supposes he needs to apologise.

“Apologise for what?”

Atsumu startles, choking on his saliva, and blinks innocently at Sakusa, who is frowning at him now with warmth in his cheeks ‒ from irritation or something else, who knows.

“W-what?” He splutters, not knowing what to say.

“Nevermind.” Sakusa leans forward and _presses his hand against Atsumu’s forehead_ , and Atsumu stiffens because _holy shit that’s probably the closest they’ve ever come into contact_ , and he definitely isn’t sober enough to disguise his open-mouthed surprise. The coolness of Sakusa’s palm seeps into Atsumu’s hot skin like a pleasantly refreshing sensation. “Maybe drinking so fast is giving you a fever,” Sakusa mutters, more to himself than to Atsumu. That’s not really how alcohol works, and Atsumu wants to say so, but he keeps getting distracted by the flat line of Sakusa’s mouth and the angular slope of his jaw and elegant arch of his neck and he forgets what he wants to say in the first place.

Sakusa lowers his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. Atsumu’s drunk and delusional enough to detect a hint of fondness in that sigh. He can smell the lemon-mint on Sakusa’s breath, in the little distance between them. He thinks he wants to taste the virgin mojito right there and then.

Then Sakusa’s hand drops away, and he’s standing up to tell the others that they should go back to the dorm building soon.

–

Atsumu rarely spots Sakusa around their dorm building, and he assumes it’s because Sakusa would rather hide in his room so that he doesn’t have to be in the vicinity of, well, everyone else. So as he’s entering the pantry area at three in the morning to microwave a doughnut (he’s hungry, okay), he doesn’t expect to bump into Sakusa Kiyoomi of all people sitting beside the counter, head dropped low with a hand wrapped around a yellow mug. Atsumu can’t tell if he’s awake – his drooped eyes are barely open but there’s no other indication that he’s alive, and what’s he even doing here at this hour anyway? He isn’t even wearing a face mask, despite being outside of his room. Atsumu doesn’t want to disturb him, though, so he turns to put his doughnut in the microwave and cringes at the loud _beep-beep_ of the buttons as he presses the timer.

There’s a rustling noise as Sakusa shifts behind Atsumu. _Ah, shit_ . A few seconds of silence, and then: “...Miya?” His voice is raw with sleepiness and rasps like roadside asphalt, which _should not be attractive and definitely isn’t_ , and Atsumu fixes his eyes on the rotating doughnut like he hasn’t heard a thing just so he has an excuse not to look at Sakusa. The microwave _beep-beeps_ again, however, so he snatches the doughnut, puts it on a plate and turns around, pretending his hands aren’t burnt from touching food fresh out of a microwave.

Sakusa’s pulled himself into a posture that’s only slightly less slouched, blinking slowly as if to confirm that it is, indeed, Atsumu there and not some sort of sleep deprivation induced hallucination. Somehow, despite the fact that his dark curls are rumpled and stick up everywhere and the fact that he’s wearing lime green sweats from head to toe, Sakusa doesn’t even look that bad. He’s got one of those faces that’s like a Greek statue carved to perfection, even if he wears the most clashing outfit, and it's awfully annoying.

 _Ah, shit_ , his mind reiterates helpfully. “Sorry if I disturbed ya, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says instead, and blows on his fingers to get rid of the _ouch-ouch-hot_ doughnut-inflicted burn. In response, Sakusa drags his line of sight slowly upwards to look him in the eye, making Atsumu uncomfortably warm and slightly on edge.

“...what time is it,” Sakusa coughs, taking a sip from his mug to clear his throat. He shoots a disgusted look down at his mug; whatever’s in there is probably lukewarm nasty by now.

“Slightly past three,” Atsumu supplies as he chews on his doughnut. “What’re ya even doin’ here at this hour?”

He notices the dark rings under Sakusa’s eyes even before the latter can reply. “Migraine. Thought making tea would–” he masks a yawn with his hand, which is strangely adorable instead of funny – “help.”

Clearly it didn’t. “That happen often?” he asks, sliding into the chair next to Sakusa. “Can’t be good for ya, with yer sleep all wack.”

“No shit.” Sakusa looks nonplussed about his lack of filter as he drags a hand down his face tiredly. “It’s normal for me. Whatever, take your doughnut back to your room so I can have some peace and quiet.” The second half of the sentence fades into slurred mumbles, like Sakusa’s too tired to even speak properly.

“Nah, ain’t movin’ until I see ya back in your room restin’,” Atsumu decides, stubbornly putting down his doughnut.

“Eager to get me in bed, aren’t you, Miya,” Sakusa drones in mild annoyance, and Atsumu doesn’t _care_ if he’s sleep deprived, that jerk’s totally doing it on purpose.

He refuses to blush, so he fights down the stuttering sensation in his stomach and rolls his eyes. “Yer migraine’s not gonna get better if ya fall asleep at the table, and then ya won’t be able to spike for shit during practice, even though ya barely do jackshit with all the others on the team.”

“That’s my problem.”

“How’re ya such an asshole even when it comes to yer own health,” Atsumu states, disbelieving. “Get up and go back to yer room.”

Sakusa sways as he shifts around in his seat, paling as he does so, and without thinking Atsumu reaches forward to steady him by the arms, because if Sakusa falls off the chair and gets a concussion it won’t be fun explaining this to Meian Shugo in the morning. “Oi, Omi-kun, you really gotta sleep,” Atsumu grumbles, speaking first to shut down any _don’t-touch-me-you-have-cooties_ retort Sakusa might make.

What he doesn’t expect is for Sakusa to slump forward and lean his head against Atsumu’s chest and mumble something into his shirt that he can’t quite make out. “Omi-kun...?” he falters, caught off-guard. “You–”

Sakusa raises his head to speak, and Atsumu prays that Sakusa can’t sense the _thump-badump_ that his heart is making. “Can’t get up, head’s heavy,” Sakusa clarifies matter-of-factly, like there’s nothing wrong with the position they’re in. Like Atsumu isn’t acutely aware of Sakusa's jaw moving against Atsumu's chest as he speaks and the lingering scent of leave-in conditioner in his hair and the traces of grey amidst dark curls. Atsumu’s still reeling. In what parallel universe would Sakusa willingly initiate contact with _him_ of all people?

“You smell nice.”

Only three words, but his heart skips a beat. Atsumu feels heat gathering in his face – literally what the hell, Kiyoomi, _what the hell_ , what kind of sick satisfaction does he get from saying dubious things and wrecking Atsumu every time he does? And _well shit_ , because if Atsumu’s thinking of Sakusa as _Kiyoomi_ , something’s up and he doesn’t _want_ to know what that something is.

(He hates to admit it, but Sakusa _may_ have given him some sort of gay awakening when Atsumu first saw him in his first-year nationals. And this holds true despite the embarrassing amount of crushes he’s had in Inarizaki. Good ol’ Sunarin, sarcastic and green-eyed and totally in love with his dumb brother although Atsumu was _clearly the superior twin but whatever he isn’t salty about it_ ; Kita-san, whom everyone in the Inarizaki volleyball team was partially in love with and is on a whole other level of untouchable, and Atsumu sort of sees a recurring pattern here. Nobody’s liked him back. Sakusa Kiyoomi, however, is truly one of a kind in that Atsumu doesn’t _want_ Sakusa to reciprocate interest in the same way at all.)

“Y’can use my soap another time, Ki– Omi-kun,” he mutters, and then, more loudly: “Come on, I’ll help ya get to yer room.”

Sakusa’s mouth presses into a pout when Atsumu drags him up and half carries him back to his room, and Atsumu shoves down the urge to brush a kiss on his temple, even though Sleepy Grumpy Sakusa _shouldn’t_ be making Atsumu feel as helplessly dazed as Two Weeks Ago Drop-Dead Gorgeous Model In Heels Sakusa. But Sakusa turns his head to bury himself against Atsumu’s shoulder and sighs drowsily, and Atsumu finds that he can’t – he doesn’t want to make excuses anymore.

That doesn’t _mean_ he’s ready to face the fact that he is, objectively, whipped for Sakusa Kiyoomi.

–

“What’s up with you?” _is_ what Sakusa would say to Atsumu like any other normal person once he catches Atsumu giving him weird looks the next time they see each other. However, Sakusa isn’t anywhere near normal, so his sole response is to arch an eyebrow and somehow manage an even flatter and accusative stare than his usual dead-inside expression. Atsumu’s offended by the lack of effort, so he opts to ignore Sakusa’s judgement in favour of talking to Shouyou about nutrition. He supposes he cares about eating well as much as every other athlete, but half his diet also consists of junk food and monosodium glutamate, and would make dear sweet Hinata Shouyou cry real tears if he knew. Meanwhile, Shou-kun is on a whole other level of health freak, even _counting calories_ in every meal he consumes. Who does that? Shouyou does, and sometimes Tobio-kun; no wonder they’re a match made in heaven. But Shouyou literally brightens like a warehouse of IKEA lighting fixtures when he talks about his meal plans, which is honestly quite the alluring sight, and it seems enough to deter Sakusa from approaching them. So Atsumu nods along to the flow of conversation, loses himself in the honey-warm brown of Shouyou’s irises, and thinks he prefers slate black instead.

Sakusa’s hands tense and relax like a slowing heartbeat. He doesn’t see it. Sakusa’s flat stare softens into something else, something like longing. He doesn’t see it either. In his mind, Atsumu knows this: the sky is blue, the sun rises every day, and Sakusa does not care about him at all.

–

But Atsumu’s life is a cruel mix of soap opera and romantic comedy, because there is no _way_ that a well-funded V.League 1 team needs to room together for a match in Okayama. There is no way that Atsumu and Sakusa are rooming together. (Spoiler alert: it’s happening anyway.) Realistically, it’s probably because they’re the last two to pick a partner to room with. Atsumu forgot to ask someone, anyone, and Sakusa most likely hadn’t bothered to pick a roommate in the first place. Luckily, the room has two queen-sized beds and is considerably spacious, so it _isn't_ all that bad, actually.

Well.

It _is_ all that bad, Atsumu thinks after they come back victorious from two consecutive matches, his muscles burning with a familiar and addictive ache, tired as hell as the adrenaline wears off. He tries not to be affected by the sight of Sakusa in a bathrobe, fresh from the shower and contently stretching his arms to towel his hair dry. He puts down the towel and frowns like a kid at the damp hair falling over his eyes, nose wrinkling as he raises a finger to flick his curls away. “Bathroom’s yours, Miya,” he calls, sitting down on his bed with his legs crossed.

“I can see that, Omi-kun,” Atsumu answers automatically as he grabs his clothes on the way to the bathroom and thinks about Sakusa’s little squinty frown even as he runs warm water all over the soap suds in his hair, scrubs exhaustion off his skin. When he’s done and dressed, he exits the bathroom to find Sakusa still in the same sitting position, eyes closed. He looks relaxed.

“Ya sleepin’ already, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu asks quietly, in case Sakusa _is_ actually asleep. He breaks into contained laughter at the latter’s lack of response. “Yer gonna catch a cold in that bathrobe, m'dear.” (Oh, hell no, he did _not_ just say that out loud.)

Immediately, Sakusa cracks open an eye and abruptly frowns, trying to look stern but really being childishly huffy. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Whatever ya say, Omi-Omi,” he says, smirking at the way Sakusa’s mouth twists at the nickname. He wants to kiss that mouth, just to see Sakusa’s reaction. Atsumu leans down to grin at him, smug that he gets to be taller for once since Sakusa’s sitting on the bed. “Y’should, anyway. Today’s games were brutal.”

“Didn’t feel that long when I was scoring far more service aces than you.” There’s a half-mocking, fully amused glint in Sakusa’s eyes as he unconsciously rubs his temple with two fingers.

“Say that again, Omi-kun!” Atsumu feels offended even though it’s true, _at least for this one time_ , so he gets all up in Sakusa’s face and sticks his tongue out at him childishly. “S’not a competition; they’re all our team’s points, anyway!”

“If it helps you sleep at night, Miya.” Sakusa’s smirk widens, on the verge of an actual smile. Then his gaze drops down and flicks up to Atsumu’s face again, and Atsumu’s heart gives an odd tight squeeze as Sakusa notes their close proximity. It’s then Atsumu realises Sakusa has a familiar scent, though he can’t tell why. He’s too preoccupied with the two moles above Sakusa’s right brow and the fact that they’re so close that he can see the dark sweep of Sakusa’s eyelashes.

(Later on he realises that Sakusa used his body soap, which explains the familiar scent, and the excuse that Sakusa ‘forgot to bring my own’ was quite possibly the weakest excuse ever given in human history.)

There’s a feather-light tingle on his forearm, and Atsumu looks down to see long fingers skimming his skin; realises that _holy crap Sakusa is touching him willingly_. It’s shocking enough for him to jerk backwards like he’s touched a live wire, out of Sakusa’s personal space. “I’m going to sleep,” Sakusa says, so nonchalantly that Atsumu wonders if he’d imagined the brief contact. “Go to bed. Goodnight, Miya.”

“Night,” he mutters, flustered into compliance, wondering if it’s possible to die of third-degree embarrassment.

And if he lies on his side just so he can watch the rise and fall of Sakusa’s chest, at least there’s no one else around judging him for it.

–

Sakusa Kiyoomi Wants Him Dead: Electric Boogaloo should really be the title of whatever shoujo episode Atsumu’s life is on right now (and it’s probably on its second season by now seeing as his life has been utter bullshit after bullshit), because Sakusa in a white button-down with the top two buttons left open is going to give Atsumu an incurable heartburn. They’re sitting across each other in the pantry area again, and it’s Atsumu’s own fault, to be honest. He’s dragged them both here after a trip to a nearby cafe just to prove that his taste in drinks is better, only to realise he had barely enough money in his pockets to buy one drink when he got there.

“If eight hundred yen barely covers the price of one drink, it’s _hideously_ overpriced,” Sakusa points out, looking like he’s about to have a headache. “And all for… what did you say it was again, eyelash coffee?”

“ _Irish_ coffee,” Atsumu corrects with a huff. “It’s not even that bad, totally yer kinda thing!” He doesn’t bother to acknowledge Sakusa’s skeptical grimace. “Just _trust_ me and drink the damn thing, Omi-kun,” he whines, dragging out his words to get on Sakusa’s nerves.

“Ugh.” Sakusa eyes the whipped cream on top of the coffee warily, then resigns himself to fate and licks the cream off with a spoon before taking a small sip. His face contorts peculiarly.

“Well, are ya convinced?”

Sakusa takes another sip as if to confirm the taste and scrunches up his face. “You know, Miya, that drink isn’t one of your better choices in life.” Atsumu doesn’t really deflate, because he sort of expected Sakusa to say something like that, but Sakusa adds, “It’s not completely horrible. I like the bitterness. So don’t make that face.”

“Ain’t makin’ no face,” Atsumu defends, though he brightens visibly. “I’ll get ya somethin’ ya won’t hate when I got more money, so ya _hafta_ say ya like it next time.”

“I said I don’t hate it, Miya. That’s as far as it’ll get. Doesn’t mean there’ll be a next time.” Sakusa’s hand curls around the cup and he stands up, causing Atsumu to stand up too in response. “Why’re you standing up too, idiot. I’m going back to my room.”

“Hphhff,” Atsumu sputters defensively, because he’s suddenly realised that Sakusa is wearing platform boots and is literally _towering_ over him across the counter and, well, his brain function kind of cuts off there. Sakusa glares at Atsumu, as if _he’s_ done something wrong, and impulsively finishes off his Irish coffee in one go, tossing the cup into the trash can.

“I thought ya were gonna bring that back to yer room,” Atsumu starts, as Sakusa draws closer like he’s gearing up for a fight. He’s at eye level with Sakusa’s jaw, which really isn’t good for his health, because all he notices at this distance is the base of Sakusa’s throat leading down to his collarbones.

“You talk too much, Miya,” Sakusa tells him, and they’re centimetres apart.

“Don’t call me that,” he says petulantly, a force of habit.

Millimetres. Sakusa lifts an eyebrow appraisingly. "What should I call you then?"

Atsumu sucks in a breath; exhales. They're sharing the same air now, at this distance. He thinks, _screw it, what's a little closer_ , and rises on his toes to kiss Sakusa squarely on the mouth.

It's nothing special, and everything at once.

"A-tsu-mu," he mutters against Sakusa's lips, when he doesn't feel Sakusa move away. "Not Miya."

"...mm," Sakusa says, pink flooding into his pale cheeks, and it's a beautiful, sacred sight. He still hasn't moved away, but his expression is carefully blank despite the intense blush.

"Omi-kun?" Astumu asks tentatively, on the edge of a precipice. Sakusa still makes no reply. "Omi-Omi. Please don't leave me hangin'."

He scowls then, flushing impressively, and Atsumu’s afraid that he’s misread the situation, that Sakusa’s about to deliver a cutting remark and sever all ties with him and move to Antarctica under a fake name to start life anew as a pharmacist. Something along those lines.

Instead, Atsumu feels long fingers clamping around the sides of his face, and all he sees is the dark ink of Sakusa’s eyes. Dark, and darker, like the smell of coffee and whiskey on Sakusa’s breath.

Sakusa holds his face and draws him into a proper kiss, teeth and lips and tongue, and exhales his name into his lips in a sigh of relief, each syllable given equal weight with nothing short of veneration. "A," and Sakusa breathes warm air into his mouth like a blessed form of resuscitation. "Tsu," and a light and soft hiss dances between teeth as Sakusa's fingers tighten around his face to pull him closer. "Mu," and the final syllable is not spoken but mouthed against his lips; a shy confession. Atsumu takes it all in and weaves his fingers in Sakusa’s hair, tastes the Irish coffee and whipped cream in Sakusa’s mouth, and he thinks this moment couldn’t have come sooner enough.

Sakusa breaks apart from the kiss, just a little, with an expression on his face that one could call wonder: eyes widened, breath coming out in short puffs, the slight trembling of his fingers, still cradling Atsumu’s face like he’s everything, everything at once.

Atsumu grins. He can’t help it.

“Stop smiling like an idiot,” Sakusa mutters, hands dropping from Atsumu’s face. “I can’t believe I actually ‒”

Atsumu just smiles wider and grabs Sakusa’s hands before they fall to his sides. “Omi-Omi,” he says slowly, delighted. “So you _do_ like me!”

Sakusa looks stunned speechless. “I,” his eyebrows furrow, and he does the squinty-frown expression again. “I hate you so much. For making me screw up my own rules. For making me not know what to do. For making me want to.” He exhales sharply, very conveniently refusing to finish his sentence.

“Wanna what?” Atsumu presses curiously, just because Sakusa is blushing in every shade of rose possible, prettier than any bouquet, and Atsumu can’t stop thinking about how too damn cute Sakusa Kiyoomi is; it’s unfair, really.

“Kiss you.” Sakusa looks away from him, breaking eye contact. “I want to kiss you, Atsumu.”

 _Atsumu_. The way Sakusa says his first name is still so fresh in his mind that it’s dizzying to hear, an exhilarating addiction. Atsumu laughs and leans forward to press a light kiss to the side of Sakusa’s jaw. “If ya wanted more kisses, y’could just say so, Omi-Omi.”

“I just did, idiot,” Sakusa huffs, but he touches his jaw gently where Atsumu kissed him, looking dazed. He glances down. Their hands are still connected. “Atsumu.”

“No, Omi, I’m not lettin’ go of our hands.”

“Date me.”

Atsumu startles and makes a yelping noise, face burning with heat. “Omi-kun, did ya ‒ didja just ‒”

Sakusa only raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. He turns his fingers outwards so that his fingertips are lightly tracing the lines of Atsumu’s palms, an idle movement that unfortunately speeds up Atsumu’s heart rate like a rollercoaster.

“I… I mean, yeah,” Atsumu stammers, and before Sakusa can say anything, he laces their hands together properly, just to feel the smooth bumps of Sakusa’s knuckles and memorise the way their fingers entwine around each other. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout this, Omi.”

“How long, then?”

“Mighta been since yer dumb clothing ad, maybe longer.” He shrugs. It’s odd to think about then, when Sakusa’s here right now, in the flesh. “Felt like forever ago.”

“My ad,” Sakusa repeats, disbelieving, and he smirks. Asshole. “Seriously, Mi‒ Atsumu? Of all things?”

“It was the high heels,” Atsumu grumbles, an admission of defeat.

Sakusa laughs then, genuine and low in his throat. He hooks a leg around Atsumu’s waist to pull him closer. Closer, always closer; it’s been too long. Kiyoomi grins down at him, a whole new kind of beautiful. “I’m glad the heels did it for you, darling.”

He puts his hands on his hips, pulls him into another kiss, and, well, they’ve got all the time in the world to memorise the shape of each other.

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic since two years...damn my writing has changed so much since then  
> I'm not satisfied with a lot of things but I'm happy I was able to get the fic out and actually finish something for once! this basically started out because I simped over the idea of Sakusa in heels and then made it sakuatsu and. honestly this fic is just yearning all around hell yeah


End file.
